Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  “Actually, no.”

  “Well, the next time you want to import bulk quantities of recently expired snack foods from former Soviet Republics, you can thank him. He’s what you would refer to as a great American patriot.”

  “Sounds like a commie to me.”

  “He’d sue you for that.”

  “Sue me for what? We’re broke.”

  “And that’s exactly why you need me, General. I’m a paying client. Assist me in my mission, and you and your men can pursue whatever extracurricular activities you wish. As long as they don’t interfere with trapping a living specimen for my research.”

  “Affirmative.” The General rubbed his chin. “We’ll set out in the morning. Where are we headed?”

  “About twenty miles outside of Piedras Negras. It’s not far from here.”

  “My friends,” El Coyote said as he gathered up empty beer bottles from the table, “you should be careful in that part of the country. It is very dangerous.”

  “Danger is my middle name,” the General responded.

  “I thought it was Huey?” Fire Team Leader Bravo asked.

  The General ignored him. Fire Team Leader Charlie walked into the brothel and made his way to the table while checking out the gyrating women in the main room.

  “Status report!” the General barked at the Team Leader.

  “She’s ready to go. I traded some of our supplies to pay the mechanic’s bill. Bus is out front. You going to finish that?” Fire Team Leader Charlie pulled the half-empty beer bottle from Private Zulu’s grasp and drained it.

  “Not the duct tape?” the General asked.

  “Nope, figured we might need that.”

  “Good man. Well, boys, let’s get some shut-eye. Big day tomorrow.”

  The men got up and followed the General out to their vehicle. The General wadded up a parking ticket stuck under the windshield wiper as the men climbed onboard. An hour later, the General quietly woke his men. They gathered in the front of the bus for a strategy meeting. Avery was inside the Coyote’s Lair, charging his laptop. Underneath the bus, Nancy was splayed out across Ziggy’s chest as Ziggy slept.

  “Here it is, men,” the General said as he thumbed through his book, “this area outside of Piedras Negras.”

  “You sure we should be headed there, General?” asked Private Tango. “That big fellow inside said it was pretty dicey around there.”

  “It was pretty hairy at the Battle of Belleau Wood, too, but it didn’t stop our doughboys from whipping those Huns. Now, be silent and listen. I’m going to tell you a story.”

  “Not another one about your relatives, please,” Fire Team Leader Alpha implored.

  “No. One about explorers…and gold.” The General grinned as his eyes gleamed. “It all started with the Aztecs, the Spanish, Cortez, and the Jesuits. For centuries, this land has been littered with gold that men were too weak, too lazy, or too dead to carry away. But like all great stories, ours begins in Texas. Y’all remember the year of our Lord 1836?” The General bowed his head in reverence.

  “No…not really…when?” the men mumbled.

  “1836. It was the year that the great land of Texas proclaimed itself a Republic. Now, the United States and its pathetic East Coast–based politicians refused to recognize this remarkable act of patriotism. Instead, the Republic of Texas was forced to fight its way through nearly a decade of invasion and foreign terrorism from Mexico. You see, the Mexican government realized that if the United States wasn’t going to support this bastion of Texas freedom, they might still have a chance to reclaim land from the God-fearing settlers who inhabited it. So what did they do? They called in reinforcements. When you’re weak, ask the strong for help. So they went to the Indians. Apaches, namely. The Mexican government spent almost ten years and tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention chests full of glass beads and bottles of firewater, bribing the Indians with promises of land and money in order to convince them to attack and destabilize the rightful settlers of the Republic. I’ll admit destabilization of the landholders made sense — the Mexicans didn’t have access to air cavalry, cruise missiles, or electronic jamming equipment at the time, so it was the next best thing. From the Indians’ standpoint, all the settlers offered were Bibles and conversion to Christianity. They thought that was pretty weak compared to gold coins.”

  “I’d choose gold, too,” said Private Tango.

  “Me, too,” added Fire Team Leader Bravo.

  “Good trade.” Private Zulu coughed and then spit on the floor of the bus.

  “But that’s just the beginning, men. Eventually, the United States annexed the Republic of Texas, an act of domestic terrorism I still haven’t forgiven that traitor, John Tyler, for. About that time, an Apache war party entered South Texas on behalf of the Mexican government. The mighty Chief Medium Rabbit, the son of Little Rabbit and grandson of Big Rabbit, led it. Along with the war party, a small detachment of Mexican soldiers accompanied them with several wagons loaded with gold coins to pay for their mercenaries’ services. Little did they know, Mirabeau Lamar had ordered the Texas Army to intercept their forces. Just inside the Texas border, the two sides clashed. The fighting was swift and bloody, with the Texans quickly routing their foe and chasing them back across the border. For twenty miles, the Army of Texas pursued Chief Medium Rabbit and his men. The Mexican soldiers with their heavy load of gold struggled to keep pace. Realizing that the Mexicans were slowing his warriors down, the Chief ordered his men to scatter into the Mexican desert. The Indians disappeared into the wilderness without a trace, as Indians are apt to do. Only Chief Medium Rabbit stayed with the Mexican troops. Medium Rabbit convinced the soldiers to bury the treasure in the bank of a small stream. Right about here.” The General pointed to a map in his book. His men all leaned in to take a look. “Now, the Texas Army was right behind them and soon caught up with the squad of Mexican soldiers and their now-empty wagons. Chief Medium Rabbit knew he was licked, so he disappeared into the desert. The Mexican soldiers put up a brief fight but were soon overrun by the Texans, who held a short, formal military trial consisting of deliberating the question of whether to hang the Mexicans from the tree on the left or the tree on the right. After closing arguments were made, it was unanimously decided that they would use the one on the left. A few minutes later, the squad of Mexican soldiers swung from the tree, their necks slightly longer than they’d been a few minutes before. The commander of the Texans worried that Mexican reinforcements might be on the way, so they gathered up the empty wagons and hightailed it back across the border.”

  “Sir, what about the gold?” asked Fire Team Leader Bravo.

  “The Texans didn’t know that there was any gold. Only Chief Medium Rabbit knew.”

  “Did he come back for it?” asked Private Tango.

  “Eventually, but in the meantime, a series of heavy rainstorms flooded the area. The rushing water completely changed the shape of the creek and its banks. The Chief could never find the exact spot, and he never told anyone about it.”

  “Then how does this dang book know about it?” Private Zulu scratched a chigger bite.

  “As more and more settlers from both Texas and Mexico moved into the area, Chief Medium Rabbit decided to get out of the Indian business. He spent the rest of his days working in a traveling Wild West show, where, ironically, he played the role of a Baptist preacher. Years later, well into his nineties, on his deathbed in Washington D.C., he recounted the story of his life to his autobiographer. She was a pretty woman in her early twenties named Margaret, whom he’d eventually marry and conceive a child with just fifteen minutes before he died. The Chief had always had a thing for young squaws. In the telling of his life’s story, the Chief explained to Margaret where the final resting place of the lost Mexican gold was, or as best he could remember. When his autobiography, Red Power, Bitch, was published, it set off a stampede of amateur and professional treasure hunters into the exact part of Mexico we’re headed to in the morn
ing, but nothing was ever found. Now, we can help these two idiots we’re babysitting to find that chupacabra thing they’re looking for, but from now on, men, gold is our top priority. Do you get me?”

  “Sir, we get you, sir!” the men chanted in unison.

  “Private Foxtrot, you did pack the metal detector, didn’t you?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “And each man has his own entrenching tool, correct?”

  “Mine is missing the handle, sir,” Private Zulu said. “But it still digs pretty fair.”

  “Excellent. Tomorrow we hunt for gold. Wouldn’t be surprised if we come across something left behind by Cortez or the Aztecs as well. For some reason people tend to lose things all over this country. This is our big break, men. Failure is not an option. With a stash of gold, we can look into buying some of those used Chinese battle tanks I was telling y’all about. Now, let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day of treasure hunting ahead of us.”

  Sweet Jesus, Private Zulu thought to himself as he tucked himself into his Dallas Cowboys sleeping bag. Every babe in town will want to go out with me if I roll in driving a battle tank.

  • • •

  Inside the Coyote’s Lair, Avery’s head hurt from lack of Mountain Dew. He was quickly entering the first stages of withdrawal. He tried to ignore the bevy of topless women vying for his attention, paid-for attention, that is, as he typed away.

  To: The Department of the Treasury

  Secretary of the Treasury

  Dear Secretary:

  I’m writing to you this evening, or whatever the hell time it is in this infernal, dry place I’m currently confined in (seriously, they should hose this place down to stop the dust)…apologies, never mind my previous comments, I’m experiencing a sugar crash. Scorpion! Jesus! Where did it go? Things are getting weird around here. Are you still there? Good.

  I have something really important to suggest. And by suggest, I mean demand. Immediately! The economy is in a shambles. Unemployment is increasing, home values are declining, debt is rising, and consumer confidence is falling. Worst of all, the retail price of soft drinks is at an all-time high. Obviously, this is clearly not a good economic signal, as I’m sure you’re aware of the inverse correlation between sugar/caffeine-based asset prices and the stock market per my very popular Internet-published treatise entitled Soda Pop Killed the European Union, or How Dr. Pepper Kicked Greece’s Ass.

  Sir, I know you’re extremely busy, mostly with taxpayer-financed lunches and pointless speeches; by the way, do you have a speechwriter I could borrow for a few days? I have a few things I’d like to get off my chest, and apparently my signature style is a bit blunt for the common man.

  I digress. You pig. Here’s my problem with the current situation. It’s all about inflation. Where does inflation come from? Pretty much from you and the Federal Reserve. Jackasses. When money is printed in order to add “liquidity” to the market, the value of previously printed paper currency is devalued. It’s an insidious form of taxation without representation, and that really gets my Jefferson up. And my Thomas is a real humdinger!

  I beg you to return us to a gold standard, but not the old, ridiculous gold standard, a new and much-improved one. I suggest the World of Warlocks (WOW) Gold Standard. And by suggest, I mean demand! Wait, I demanded something earlier. I’ll just suggest it aggressively. The economy of this Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game (MMORPG) is quickly becoming the twenty-sixth largest economy on the planet. At its explosive current rate of growth, it will inevitably pass Sweden’s GDP sometime in the next few years. More importantly, the stable currency and low inflation rate of World of Warlocks is the envy of most modern economists. How do they do it, you ask? Or wait, did I just ask that? Really need some caffeine. Never mind. Anyway, they do it with a currency tied to a specific commodity…gold, and lots of it. I myself, and by “myself” I mean my Level Eighty-Five Night Elf Rogue whose name is unpronounceable in the English tongue (you can just refer to him as Fred), have accumulated close to one million pieces of gold, just under the game’s allowable cap, an artificial ceiling that I can’t fully understand (for more information on this topic, please reference my website, where I debate whether WOW is a paragon of capitalism or socialism). Nevertheless, the economy of WOW is a model of efficiency and productivity. Aligning the U.S. dollar with the WOW Gold Standard would be a courageous but no-risk decision. In WOW, the intelligence of the elves, the industriousness of the dwarves, and the sweat of the humans power their economy. And by “humans” I mean the human avatars in the game, not your orc-like colleagues over at the Federal Reserve fumbling around with the discount rate and presuming it actually does anything they actually mean it to. Bunch of monkeys humping a football in a boardroom, that’s all they are. Additionally, in WOW, the trolls and their deviousness offer a natural counterbalance to the rest of the society to avoid reckless social and charitable decisions in roughly the same way the old Republican party used to in ours. In summary, WOW is the perfect economic model of guile, ingenuity, and deceit. It’s efficient, brutally fair, and extremely stable. Sound like ours? Of course not, you read the papers. Tell me I’m wrong. If your bureaucratic mandates require a commission to study the issue, I’m happy to volunteer as the chairman. Obviously, I would require the appropriate travel vouchers and lodging/meal per diem. Nothing more than the average senator receives. I’m not a greedy man by nature.

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  P.S. – Any information you can send me regarding how to exchange Fred’s significant WOW gold balances for nonsequential, unmarked twenty-dollar bills or bearer bonds would be greatly appreciated.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It Wants Khaf

  The large white delivery truck headed north toward the U.S./Mexican border. Originally, it had been a beer truck, and it still looked vaguely like a beer truck, but in reality it was more like a tank. The glass in the driver’s compartment was bulletproof, and the run-flat tires were designed to continue operating even when shot with large-caliber ammunition. The gas tank was armored and self-sealing, and the cargo bay was reinforced with steel plate armor. It had horizontal firing ports that could be opened to allow gunmen inside the truck’s storage compartment to fire on assailants. A trap door on the roof of the cargo bay opened to allow a fifty-caliber machine gun to be raised via electric motor and employed against other vehicles. The modified truck was extremely heavy. A customized, more powerful engine and stronger, more durable shocks and brakes offset the increased weight. The truck was closely followed by two black SUVs with tinted windows. The three-vehicle convoy barreled down the highway.

  Cesar had contacted El Barquero early that morning. Cesar’s sources said that the Padre wanted a shipment of weapons, mainly heavy arms, moved closer to the border, and Cesar had a description of the delivery vehicle and the route they were taking. The only problem was they didn’t have much time.

  The weapons were to be used for fighting with the rival cartels that threatened the Padre’s precious smuggling routes into central Texas. The other cartels had recently become more brazen. Everyone knew what had happened in the Veracruz harbor. They thought the Padre was becoming weak. In the wars between the different drug cartels of Mexico, weakness was always exploited as an opportunity to expand. Turmoil within the leadership circle of a cartel created a vacuum that had to be filled quickly. This was the first time in many years that anyone could imagine challenging the Padre in his own territories. However, the other cartels were not working together as they should have. They were just racing forward individually to test the Padre’s vulnerability. The Padre needed to teach them a lesson, and he planned to use the latest military-grade weapons manufactured by the United States to do it. His enemies would be outgunned. Once their men had pulled back from his territory, he could get back to rebuilding his narco-empire.

  Ten miles ahead of the armored truck, El Barquero stood on the southbound access road o
f the highway. The access road led down from an overpass across the route the weapons shipment was taking. Its elevation gave him the ability to see for miles across the pancake-flat terrain to the south. With a high-powered sniper’s monocular/range-finder, he scanned the horizon and watched. The highway traffic was light. According to Cesar, the shipment would pass this way soon. Cesar’s men were to follow the vehicle at a distance. Cesar himself would be trailing a few miles back in a helicopter. The news of the shipment had come so quickly that Barquero and Cesar didn’t have time to coordinate communications equipment. Barquero barely had time to gather his weapons and find suitable transportation for the mission. He was going to be on his own to stop the transport initially, but that was okay with him. Cesar and his men would be close behind, and Cesar had never let him down. In fact, Cesar had bailed him out of a number of tight spots back in the old days. Barquero wasn’t worried; Cesar always brought the cavalry in right on time.

  Through Barquero’s monocular, a large, white delivery truck appeared on the distant horizon. It was almost two miles away. He didn’t have much time. He ran for the truck parked alongside the road. The dump truck he had stolen from a construction site was still full of gravel. Putting the vehicle in gear, he pulled onto the highway. The heavy load of crushed rock made gaining speed difficult. He stood on the accelerator, slammed on the clutch, and shifted through the gears with urgency. He could see the delivery truck approaching from the south. The divided highway had two lanes running in each direction. Between the north- and southbound lanes was a small median. It was made of concrete and was the height of a street curb. Barquero pulled into the left-hand lane and continued to accelerate. The armored truck was two hundred yards away. Barquero tightened his seatbelt and pulled on a race-car driver’s crash helmet. This is going to suck. One hundred yards. He gripped the steering wheel tightly and checked his rearview mirror to see if anyone was following him. Fifty yards. He cursed and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The dump truck leapt over the low median and bounced into the oncoming traffic. The delivery truck driver had no time to respond; his foot barely touched the brake as Barquero’s gravel-laden dump truck crashed head-on into the Padre’s delivery truck. At the moment of impact, Barquero let go of the steering wheel and crossed his muscled arms in front of himself. He had been trained to let go of the wheel during a collision, as the impact of a crash can rip the steering wheel violently to one side, literally breaking the driver’s arm. The impact of the crash spun both vehicles clockwise. The rear of the dump truck clipped the front end of one of the SUVs, which was following too closely behind the delivery truck and was unable to stop. The second SUV had been far enough back in the convoy to witness the dump truck cross the median at full speed. Its driver slammed on the brakes and slid past the spinning tangle of vehicles in front on him. His SUV came to a halt on the side of the road. The impact between the two trucks was incredibly violent, but incredibly short. The mass of the two heavy vehicles slamming into one another brought them to a quick halt. Dust from the gravel in the bed of the dump truck clouded the scene like a smoke screen.